


When Snow Falls In London

by AutumnAtMidnite



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Crossover, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, John Watson is a Saint, M/M, Male Friendship, Moral Lessons, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Plot, Sherlock is a Brat, Slash Goggles, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:44:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnAtMidnite/pseuds/AutumnAtMidnite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock scoffs at the season of peace on earth and goodwill towards men, he is paid a visit by a strange apparition. Complete, but will be posted in increments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldvermilion87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldvermilion87/gifts).



> While inspired by 'A Christmas Carol' and 'It's A Wonderful Life', this diverges significantly from both, and was never meant to be a carbon copy of either. Also, there are as many shameless nods to ACD!Canon as I was able to insert, and unpardonable liberties were taken with a Charles Dickens classic. 
> 
> Considering this was originally written 10 December 2011, it does deviate to a degree from S3, so should be considered an AU. And while complete, due to extensive revisions and rewriting, it will be posted in increments.

***

It was snowing: to begin with.

Mind you, I don't mean to suggest there's anything so extraordinary about molecules of H20 freezing into crystallised hexagons - it _was_ well into winter, even in the heart of London, where White Christmases are nothing but a fond reminiscence of bygone days. Even John Watson could have told you frosty precipitation was an inevitable occurrence when the temperature dipped below zero degrees Celsius, and he’s not particularly well versed in scientific theorem. 

What I in fact meant by way of mentioning the unforeseen blizzard that swept through the streets in tumultuous drifts on that special night was to elucidate for you precisely what made that first Christmastide season Sherlock Holmes and John Watson spent together as flat mates so exceedingly magical. 

You don’t believe me. 

I can tell these things, you know. One is not an - well, who or what I am doesn't matter one whit to this tale, so we'll simply forget I ever mentioned it, shall we? Very good. Only, trust me when I reveal magic _does_ exist, though most assuredly not in the incarnation of witches and wizards and objects endowed with great powers. There is nothing quite so magical as the mundane; a word spoken with genuine kindness, a kiss stolen under the mistletoe, the company of friends and family to shine light in a corner of the soul that once festered in darkness and gloom. So you see, that is the sort of thing I refer to by magic, and when you think on the matter, it really isn’t such an inexplicable thing after all. 

On certain days, however, when just the right conditions align, there are ripples in the fabric of time, disarranging the dull routine of existence, and tearing for a fleeting instant should an array of remarkable prerequisites be met. These special conditions are veiled even from one such as myself, though if I am allowed to speculate, I wonder if some mortals do not have some lesson that, by any means necessary, must be instilled.

What comes of the knowledge gained depends entirely on the character of those who are assigned to travel through the tear, and their worthiness to receive the gift being offered. Nor must you delude yourself that the outcome, by default, will take an agreeable turn. For some, the sun breaks through the murk shielding their well concealed hearts, though others come out as raving madmen, staring off into oblivion for the sad remainder of their days. Only fairy tales have inherently happy endings, and let me assure you, dear reader, this will be no such thing.

Though he hardly knew it, Sherlock Holmes was about to be the recipient of just such a lesson…

***

It can be argued that before John Watson limped into his life, Sherlock was an intentionally lonely man, familiar with none of those comforting comradeships sought out by the teeming masses of prosaic, small-minded mortals with whom he only grudgingly interacted. And then, only to prevent his mind from collapsing in on itself from the sheer crushing force of ennui he experienced without a case to occupy that substantial intellect. He’d convinced himself and those circling his orbit that he had no requirement for such maudlin indulgences, wanted nothing to do with anything outside the cold and narrow light of reason. Emotional displays were, to him, frivolous at best and destructive to the logical facilities, at worst.

Perhaps that was why, on the evening in question, at seven minutes past eight, to be precise, an awful row was getting set to commence within the cozy garret bedroom of one usually amiable ex-army surgeon.

Outside, a light dusting of flurries swirled in the blustering winds, while beads of ice hanging diamond-like from the boughs of that plane tree behind 221B scratched against the panes, creating an altogether too rare and pristine wintry scene. John stood at the window with the awe of a child, enjoying this inspiring scene - that is, until his exasperating friend, clad in dressing gown and pyjamas, slipped into his room and flopped backwards onto the bed with a declaration of boredom. Sprawled out in the manner of a woebegone maiden whose knight errant has lately been roasted by a fire breathing dragon, John couldn’t help but remarking all that was needed to accentuate the dramatic effect to its fullest would be the back of a hand draped over his brow.

This observation only caused Sherlock to sniff in indignation and roll over onto his side.

“Here's an idea,” said John, stepping away from the window over to his wardrobe. “Get dressed. Then you won't be bored anymore.”

The seemingly innocuous issue of why Sherlock had still not bothered to get ready for the small gathering at a pub in St John's Wood that Lestrade invited them to three weeks prior, provoked a scathing diatribe on the topic of why the detective most certainly had no plans to be in attendance.

“You promised, Sherlock.” 

“Did I?”

“You grunted in response when I told you about it. I took that as a yes.”

“It was a non-committal reply, John. You need to be aware of these things to avoid any messy complications in future. And stop scowling. It doesn’t suit you.”

Presently, it dawned upon John that he happened to be scantily clad in nothing but his pants, and arguing with your obstinate flatmate is a matter best tackled when fully clothed. Thus, he stepped into a pair of trousers pulled violently from the dresser drawer.

“Mingling with us peasants once in a while wouldn’t kill you. Especially since it _is_ the season of goodwill towards men,” the aggrieved man growled in a tone that conveyed anything but said sentiment.

“I’ve no use for those tedious people and their pointless social gatherings.” His nose wrinkled in revulsion at the mere thought. 

“Sherlock,” he said, fingers kneading his temple in attempt to stave off the spectacular migraine he felt forming, “it's about being with people you care about for the holidays.”

“What a noble sentiment,” he dismissed the notion with an indolent wave of his hand, “although entirely unnecessary. We see that lot practically every day of the year.”

“This is different, Sherlock.”

“Then _you_ go to that dreadful affair, and at least have the decency to leave me out of it.”

John hadn't imagined their mutual invite to something so uncomplicated as a night out with a few mates would be so earth shattering, but apparently, this was asking a terribly great deal. It wasn't even that he had been particularly looking forward to it beforehand, but by this point the principle of the thing was at stake, even if it meant his leaving alone. The crux of it, though, was how he foolishly imagined those days of loneliness were well and truly behind him. Because despite how the shattered fragments of John's life had rapidly been reassembling themselves that year, he felt more fractured now then when the news he was no longer of any use to the army was broken to him. 

Agitated, John tossed aside his familiar oatmeal coloured jumper in favour of a more festive one in forest green. Then resumed his campaign to convince his friend to accompany him. But no amount of pleading, cajoling or threats of sabotaging the experiment looming in the microwave for the past three weeks - which was now, John suspected, beginning to grow tentacles - succeeded in convincing his friend the “dreadful affair” was anything but a useless waste of time. 

As a last resort, John took a seat on the bed beside Sherlock, who was having a strop that would do a five year old proud, and laid a gentle hand on his arm. Seemingly, he was under the impression that if he presented a warm enough plea, he could chisel away the ice, melt that frozen exterior. You and I both have a fair enough understanding of how that brainstorm was destined to conclude, yet it could never be said John didn't have a far more generous nature than most. 

“Since Harry's not speaking to me again, that makes you the only family I have. So, you're definitely not going? Not even if all I want as an early Christmas present is to spend the night out with you?” 

The response took not a heartbeat's hesitation. “Your time would be better spent if you remained at home and made me tea.”

The bed creaked as John rose. Silently, he picked up his shoes from behind the door, and, in a fit of ire, stormed out of the bedroom without uttering another word. The detective heard him fumbling with his shoes on the stairs, and, less than a minute later, the slamming of the front door disturbed the eerie silence that had already settled over the flat. For reasons that defied all logic, it tended to get like that whenever John left. Like something in Baker Street had shifted out of place. 

A further three minutes thirteen seconds elapsed before the oppressive weight of boredom compelled Sherlock to bestir himself in search of some form of mental stimulation. 

Downstairs, in the sitting room, he huffed an exhalation of disgust at the gaudy tinsel his sentimentalist flatmate had conspired with their landlady to suspend from nearly every available surface. Not even his chemical table had escaped this insidious seasonal infiltration – the complete set of vintage retorts, Bunsen burners and (bloody difficult to come by) vials of swamp adder venom were cleared away to make room for the scrawny Christmas tree adorned with more fairy lights than branches. There was some sort of holly-berried monstrosity perched atop the mantel, rife with red candles and artificially scented leaves. 

It was rather nice, mind you, but in a fit of petulance, Sherlock binned it all the same. 

The crowning jewel of this indoor winter wonderland, however, was the very conspicuous sprig of mistletoe dangling from the kitchen doorway. Mrs Hudson’s doing, obviously. He offered the glorified piece of shrubbery a sideways sneer as he passed, and did have a mind to bin that, as well, though since he had already settled into his chair by the fire before coming to a decision as to its ultimate fate, getting up to do away with the vile weed is too dull a prospect to follow through with.

Without a case, his chemical analyses or John to entertain him, Sherlock’s eyes darted over to the massive leather bound edition of ‘Poe’s Complete Works’, the one which contained the hidden compartment. For some moments he stared at the bookshelf before satisfying himself the effort was worth the energy expended in rising, and once he stood before it, contemplated the act he was about to indulge in. His long fingers grazed the spine almost hesitantly as he idly observed it had been so long since he had reason to consider that particular distraction, a layer of dust had accumulated on the span of shelving.

Just as he made to pluck it from the shelf, a knock emanated from downstairs.

“Oh, go away,” he hissed at the poorly timed and most unwelcome intrusion. 

Definitely not a case, otherwise the late night caller desperate enough to venture out in this tempest would be a bit more forceful in their handling of the knocker. He shouted for Mrs Hudson, though she’d made some mention of visiting her sister in Surrey, and her notable absence made it readily apparent she left earlier than scheduled. 

Taking the steps one at a time, Sherlock took pains to properly stomp down each in its turn. His foul mood was not in the least improved when he swung open the door to be greeted by the vision of Mycroft, leaning patiently on his umbrella, ankles crossed, a sickeningly cheerful smile on his face despite the weather and the fact his younger sibling regarded him with the same expression he reserved for Molly’s awful coffee. 

“Oh, it's _you_ ,” said Sherlock in prelude to forcibly slamming the door. His attempts, however, were thwarted by a craftily placed umbrella wedged into the frame. 

Uninvited, his elder brother entered, brushing snowflakes off the shoulders of his designer suit. 

“What brings you here? Run out of hapless foreign countries to invade?”

Ignoring Sherlock’s rudeness, a skill the elder Holmes had perfected to an exact science, Mycroft Holmes offered a nod by way of greeting before silently making his way up the stairs. His snow drenched umbrella remained in hand, being as after the last incident involving rancid pig lard in the brolly stand - well, he naturally acquired a distrust of apparently innocent objects within the confines of 221b Baker Street.

Quite understandable, really. 

It was not until both were settled in their respective armchairs, engaged in what might be called a silent standoff, but what in truth passed for peaceable interaction between the Holmes brothers, that either of them uttered a word. 

“I see you’re back to old habits,” Mycroft noted with a nod towards the bookshelf to his immediate left. “You haven’t indulged yet, obviously, but those footprints entrenched so deeply in the carpet do make it clear you have plans to.”

“Piss off.”

“Where’s John?” At this question, the elder sibling crossed his legs in a very self-satisfied sort of way. You wouldn’t think smugness could be conveyed in the crossing of one’s legs, but Mycroft Holmes had a flair for exuding how pleased he was with himself in his minutest gestures. 

Silence ensued, telling the elder sibling all he needed to know.

“Such a pity. I was so hoping your little friend would be home when I proposed you and he come down to Pall Mall for Christmas dinner tomorrow evening. Think how terribly it would upset Mummy if you weren’t there.”

“Mummy’s gone, Mycroft. Or haven’t you noticed?”

“It should still please her to have family spend the day together; may I remind you, it _is_ tradition. And I dare say your doctor should very much like to attend. The past few years, Sherlock, were quite a hardship on him, and a family affair such as this would, I suspect, ease the pain of having celebrated the season on foreign soil for so long.”

“How altruistic of you. All the same, you can count on me to not be there.”

“Very well,” he said, rising. “Do let me know if you change your mind. I’ll have a place set for you and John in the event you decide to stop by. Oh, and Sherlock, please make an effort not to poison yourself after I leave.”

With that, Mycroft saw himself out, much to the delight of his younger sibling.


	2. Chapter 2

One feels an obligation to mention that Sherlock Holmes’s treatment of classic literature could be considered nothing short of an abomination.

The vintage leather-bound edition of Poe’s collected writings was carelessly flung to the floor, cast to the wayside like so much detritus once its morbid purpose had been served. An unforgivable frivolousness in so well educated a man, if you’ll pardon the intrusion of my humble opinings. And all so he could access his detestable cache wherein was stored one disposable hypodermic needle and a few vials of injectable cocaine. As the majority of the dusty old tomes on that shelf belonged to him, and John, who unlike his half-mad friend was not prone to rummaging through the possessions of others, the simplest of hiding places became secure as had a sealed vault been installed behind the wall.

Rolling back the sleeve of his dressing gown, Sherlock’s eyes rested thoughtfully on the sinewy forearm all dotted with the scars of innumerable track marks marring otherwise flawlessly smooth, pale skin. He thrusted the sharp point into sensitive flesh, and, liquefied toxin injected successfully into his veins, sank back into his armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction as the needle fell idly from his twitching fingers. 

Barely a moment ticked by before a dulcet tune wafted into the flat:

_“God rest ye merry gentlemen,_  
Let nothing you dismay,  
Remember Christ our Saviour  
Was born on Christmas Day,  
To save us all from Satan’s pow’r  
When we were gone astray  
O tidings of comfort and joy,  
O tidings of comfort and joy…” 

Groaning dismally, he shifted in his chair, attempting to mute the hateful intonation with John’s Union Jack pillow until the harmonised voices encroached ever more deeply into his haze of artificial euphoria. He couldn't imagine what carolers were doing out on a tempestuous night such as this... or what sort of antiquated idiot even went caroling anymore. He’d always considered it to be an inane pastime if ever there was one, and that the stupid, discordant yowling was chiseling away, bit by bit, at his simulated bliss, did not go very far in improving his opinion of it. 

When it became apparent merely willing them away wasn’t much of a solution to this cruelest form of torture imaginable, Sherlock vowed to put a swift end to that miserable canticle he wouldn’t have so much as wished on the likes of Moriarity. 

Well, maybe him, the great git. 

Granted, chasing off those miserable whingers involved stirring himself from the warmth and comfort of his drug induced langour, but one does what they must in times of desperation. Without so much as bothering - or more likely the case given his slothful state, remembering - to put on a pair of slippers, Sherlock headed outside to send those abrasive holiday do-gooders scattering. While he was somewhat dizzy upon rising, the further downstairs he descended, the closer the air became, so much so that it was thick and gritty in his lungs, a side effect which had never before been attributable to his usage (or abuse) of illegal narcotics. If it wasn’t so unaccountably draughty, he’d accuse their estimable landlady of having set the heater too high. Although, he was certain the air was decidedly not this stale nor the hallway so chilly when Mycroft intruded half an hour before.

Curious.

Yet not nearly so unnerving as the sight which greeted him when he wrenched open the front door. 

Whorls of fog the colour and consistency of rotten pea soup so thoroughly permeated Baker Street that to make out more than the sooty rooftops of the houses across the street was a feat of Herculean proportions. A horse drawn four-wheeler, its wheels grinding on the cobblestones, emerged from the brume only to vanish back within as the plumes of billowing fog swallowed it whole. Men in frock coats and top hats, women swathed in trailing dresses and velvet cloaks, their hands warmed in fur muffs, passed him by - there one instant, and, like the cabs whose clattering hooves could still be heard somewhere in the distance, vanished into the fog in another. 

But the longer Sherlock remained in this dreamlike world, the more it occurred to him that the palpable bleakness of the fog was subsiding. And when it finally abated entirely, he found himself centered in a cheery Christmas panorama more nauseatingly saccharine than the Currier & Ives lithograph Mrs Hudson kept framed in her sitting room. 

Lightly falling snow dusted the ground as an omnibus rattled past, couples walking arm-in-arm flocked towards Regents Park, and a boisterous group of children scurried past, skating blades affixed to shoes slung over their shoulders. At the kerb shone the dim glow of a gas lamp, under which a group of carolers nestled in fur trimmed cloaks were standing, hymnals in hand. 

The world’s only consulting detective backed away, his neurons firing with such unfettered rapidity, his brain was danger of imminent overload. 

While the foremost mind of our century gaped on the doorstep in the manner of a dead halibut, a middle-sized man bundled in an Inverness, ruddy face partially obscured by the layers of muffler coiled round his throat, tipped his hat to the carolers before coming up behind Sherlock. The newcomer begged his pardon, to no avail. Then, in the manner of one who is accustomed to encountering peculiar characters, removed a key from his pocket with a long-suffering sigh, and opened the door to 221b, which was promptly clicked shut in his wake. 

Startled into some semblance of awareness by the closing door, Sherlock turned round to find himself confronted with the familiar numerals gracing what was decidedly not his front door, and stared at them just a moment longer than necessary, for good measure. And unless Mrs Hudson let out the heretofore empty mouldy basement rooms without his knowledge, there should not be another soul besides himself and John who were in possession of a key. Even stranger was the fact that while he stood fixed in front of the flat he had begun to call home, this could not be the place he lived in. The door, for one thing, no longer sported a coating of dark paint, instead being a deep shade of polished mahogany. The tarnished brass handle and deep scratches around the keyhole suggested the wood was naturally weathered and timeworn, and that this wasn't his brother’s tasteless idea of a joke. 

Even the British government, he remained certain, couldn't control the environment so thoroughly and in such short order. 

Pulling at the handle, Sherlock found the door to be quite firmly locked, and, in his eagerness to get back inside, dislodged a wreath he could have sworn was not formerly present, as the carolers delved into a particularly shrill rendition of _The Holly and the Ivy_. But what made his heart stutter were the strained notes he could discern sounding from a tortured violin resonating from the first floor flat. Granted, the combined effect might have found a useful purpose in afflicting severe mental anguish on politicians and other loathsome forms of life, yet that was not at all why a slightly maniacal chuckle escaped his lips whilst he calculated the only two plausible conclusions to this scenario: either that he’d dosed himself with a batch of cocaine that went off, or the second, highly improbable but not impossible surmise being he had gone utterly mental. 

Because instantly upon hearing the harrowing stains, if one may indeed refer to the careless scrapings as such, he realised that was _his_ violin being murdered up there. The unique sound of a Stradivarius could never be replicated, never mind how well the instrument was crafted. The thought spurred him into a renewed burst of action, and he pulled furiously at the unrelenting door handle. He needed the solidity of his and John’s shared rooms like never before, but the forsaken thing was bolted tight, and before Sherlock’s formidable brain could catch up to his mouth, he'd let out a string of obscenities that would have caused the carolers to rush off in no little indignation, the ears of the children present covered firmly by their mother’s hands - that is, if they could actually hear him. 

That those around him were so oblivious to his tirade only took the situation into a new level of the bizarre, prompting him to yank the door with such force he subsequently slipped backwards on a patch of ice, landing in an inglorious heap upon the ground. 

“Need a hand up?” offered a solicitous voice from above, followed soon thereafter by a friendly appendage. 

Sherlock scoffed insolently; nonetheless, the obliging Samaritan remained with fingers dangling mere centimeters from the ungrateful detective’s nose in an unspoken invite, until such time as he deigned to accept the help. The wait turned out to be not such a long one after all, seeing how Sherlock had his pride, and the unsightly wet spot forming in an embarrassing region of his dressing gown proved incentive enough for him to take the proffered hand.

It wasn’t until he was on his feet again that Sherlock could make out the very distinctly featured face of the man who'd come to his aid. If one strained their ears, it might have been possible to hear his brain grind to a screeching halt. In fact, a full thirty-eight point nine seconds elapsed before his grey cells slowly rendered themselves back into some semblance of functionality, and even then, all Sherlock could do was suspire from the shock. 

“How is this possible?” he finally managed. 

“I was informed my presence here was required,” the man said with a shrug. 

“But…Victor Trevor? _My God, you’ve been dead for seven years!_ “


	3. Chapter 3

If ever there was a man besides the saintly John Watson who saw, albeit dimly, that there was more to Sherlock Holmes than an overly self-assured genius masked in an untouchable exterior, then that man was one Victor Trevor, who attended Uni with Sherlock for a few short months. He’d never referred to Sherlock’s deductions as parlour tricks, and if he wasn’t much mistaken, his father had been genuinely impressed by them when Victor had taken him home to meet his family one weekend. Of course, there was still the odd eye roll at his inferences, but all things considered, the two got on relatively well. Aside from the fact that Victor’s terrier had a relish for the taste of his ankles.

But that was all inconsequential, being that the man gripping his hand and grinning stupidly as he did so was currently deader than a doornail. 

After his father’s unexpected death, Victor dropped out of Uni to take some asinine job at a tea manufacturing plant in India, and, as a consequence, was struck down not much later during an outbreak of the dreaded Tapanuli fever, for which there to this day remains no cure. The body had been thenceforth transported to Bart's, as the funeral was to be held in London, and it was then Sherlock took advantage of the opportunity to observe the remains. There could be no doubts the corpse unveiled to him on the autopsy table was anyone other than Victor; the distinguishing marks and small tattoo on his left shoulder vehemently proclaimed the dead man's identity. 

That, and his skull now resided on Sherlock’s mantel.

“You’re dead,” Sherlock finally repeated, withdrawing his hand.

“Stunning deduction, there, Sherlock,” said the man who both looked an sounded like Victor Trevor. “But if you don’t mind, we’re on a tight schedule. I have strict orders to get you back home by Christmas Day, and, let’s see,” he glanced at an old pocket watch procured from the waistcoat of a rather smart, if outmoded, three piece suit, “the clock strikes midnight in barely three hours. So if you’re ready, what’s say we get started?” 

“Do you realise,” Sherlock remarked, “that your presence in my subconscious mind is the most illogical development of the evening? I find your appearance rather disconcerting, and will find myself in the position of needing to permanently banish your memory from my hard drive if you do not instantly take your leave. Run along now, like a good apparition.”

“I’m not a figment of your imagination,” Victor protested.

“You can be nothing else,” Sherlock rationalised. “You, as I have previously stated, are dead.”

“Of course I’m dead, you idiot! How else do you think I got to be a ghost?”

“A ghost, you say?”

The man who really ought to have been dead nodded in grim affirmation. “The ghost of Christmas past, in fact.”

"Ah, I see. Not that this hasn't been terribly enlightening, but if you'll excuse me, I have a bad trip to sleep off.”

“If you don’t mind, it’s high time we got started, otherwise any delays could get you stuck here indefinitely. And trust me, neither one of us wants to deal with the paperwork involved with _that_ fiasco.” Victor shuddered.

“Yes, quite.” Sherlock smiled placatingly. “I’ll just see myself home and save you the trouble, shall I?” he said, heading for the entryway of not-quite 221b.

“You’re about as close to home as I am to life, mate,” Victor laughed mirthlessly, stepping in front of his erstwhile friend to place one palm on the door while simultaneously tugging at the dangling belt of Sherlock’s dressing gown. “I’ve always said that one distinct advantage of being incorporeal is the ease of movement bestowed upon us spirits… and by default, those who travel in our company.”

With that, he yanked the bemused consulting detective through several centimeters of solid wood, into the semi-darkness of what would have vaguely resembled his own hallway if the carpeting on the stairs and wallpapering wasn’t so _wrong_.

“Well, come on then, there’s nothing to see here but sopping coats and a wilted aspidistra,” Victor said from atop the staircase… and how did he ever get up there so quickly? 

Following the entity who bore a striking resemblance to his dead friend had nothing, the detective reminded himself as he set foot atop the first of what he already counted to be a total of seventeen steps, to do with a belief this was anything other than a hallucination. The avalanche of contradictory was not lost on him, but Sherlock nonetheless continued upward, bare feet creaking on the carpeted stairs and the ninth step _never_ creaked before. A halo of dim illumination emanated from a gas sconce on the landing, too much for him to take in, yet the impossibility of it all was such a compelling motivator that Sherlock was helpless but to do anything but be led by it.

Of its own volition, the sitting room door that ought to have led into his and John’s shared flat creaked open, allowing him entrance as Victor whisperd something about them only having a moment to spare, what with interdimensional wayfaring being enough of a nuisance without having to compile time constraints atop it. 

“And when compounded with travelling along the space time continuum,” the spectre in Victor’s guise groused, “well, suffice it to say its passing through those wormholes that wreak havoc with Earth’s time.”

“Wormholes are wholly hypothetical, and the most recent scientific evidence suggests the particles of quantum foam in which they are believed to exist are too small to admit passage of the tiniest atom, much less a human being,” Sherlock scoffed impulsively, before realising he was engaging in intellectual discourse with a figment of his imagination contrived by a drug induced delirium.

The absurdity of his situation, however, was overridden by the fact there were currently two intruders making themselves comfortable in the flat with a passing similarity to their own. One whose features were obscured where he lay draped in an armchair, and the other a husky, fair haired, mustached man pouring himself a drink at the sideboard. 

This was indeed the first floor flat within 221b Baker Street, and there were few minute yet striking similarities too glaring to be ignored, yet somehow, was also so far removed from his home as to be unrecognisable in nearly every other facet. Everything was wrong, turned upside-down. 

_“Fascinating,”_ Sherlock breathed, far too intrigued by the impossibility of the situation to give any credence to his initial hesitations. “Can either of you tell me where I am?”

“Don’t bother wasting your voice. They’re oblivious to our presence,” Victor said, holding him back. “We’re only here to observe, Sherlock. You’re being gifted the chance to understand those past errors that comprise the quintessence of your being, manifestations of the psyche, the soul - call it by any name you will, but here is the opportunity to set right the many wrongs you have, in the recesses of your heart, committed repeatedly.”

“That is utterly absurd.” 

“Knew you’d say that. You always were too obstinate -”

“Logical.”

“For your own good,” Victor concluded stubbornly, herding the detective over to the fireplace, where the scene playing out before them could be viewed in its entirety.

“Must you carry on with that infernal racket?” The much aggrieved voice sounded from the far side of the room, beside the spirits case. “Really, my dear fellow. Can you not play a piece with some semblance of a melody? Mendelssohn, perhaps,” he continued, collapsing into the chair opposite the disgruntled violinist with a restorative brandy in hand. 

In response, the instrument was laid aside with a huff by a broody, emaciated looking individual. “My apologies for disturbing you. Though oughtn’t you be home partaking of Christmas Eve dinner with the lovely Mrs Watson instead of revisiting your old bachelor digs out of some misplaced sense of charity for its lone inhabitant?”

“It is nothing of the kind. Mary and I would like nothing better than to have you with us for our Christmas festivities. You are family to us, Holmes.”

Victor was compelled to lay a warning hand on his elbow as Sherlock made to lunge forward between the adjacent chairs at the mentioning of his and John’s surnames. “Let this play out as it will. Interference is an impossibility, anyway.”

“I’ve no use for such frivolities, Doctor. There is naught in this stale existence which matters to me more than my work, for all else is extraneous and therefore corrosive to the logical faculties, to the mental exultation which I crave.”

“I see it is the cocaine to-day,” the mustached fellow remarked, setting down his emptied glass and running a hand over his brow in the fashion of a man who has been tried to his limits. “All the same, our invitation stands. It pains me very much to see you alone during Christmastide, and if you for a moment think our celebrations will be the same without you, then for once Sherlock Holmes is sorely mistaken.” 

Without further ado, the doctor rose and took his leave in a state of considerable agitation.

“What’s his problem?”

“Even genius has its limits, I suppose,” said Victor with a lamenting shake of the head. 

“Bah!” the tall, gaunt man expostulated once the door closed firmly behind his friend. Bounding off his chair in a fit of sprightly energy, he practically walked _through_ Sherlock as he rummaged through a pile of assorted litter on the mantelpiece, until his long, questing fingers emerged victorious with a dark Moroccan case that sprang open to reveal a glass hypodermic needle and three vials of a substance Sherlock was intimately familiar with. Despite himself, he shivered.

The clock upon the mantle chimed half past the hour when the man, who once more reclined in his chair, shirtsleeve absently left rolled up, drifted off into oblivion. In the interim, the form of Victor Trevor turned his attention to aforesaid clock, pulled back the glass case, and wound the hands forward, methodically at first, until his pace quickened into a blur of movements too rapid to catalogue, and the room around them began to swirl into an indistinct whirl of colour and motion. 

“That should do it,” he could barely hear Victor through the buzzing in his ears, and as his vertigo subsided, his surroundings took on a definitive shape. 

They were standing on the pavement before a brick building on a crisp, clear winter morning, church bells ringing in the distance. The few pedestrians strolling past were, regardless of wealth, class or age, bedecked in their finest attire and wished each other the compliments of the season as a man - the very same mustached one he’d seen only moments before - stiffly made his way down the stairs, taking care to avoid the patches of ice that had accumulated overnight. 

“John!” called a voice emanating from the open doorway, belonging to a blonde-haired woman, plain of face and small of stature, but with an uncommon soulfulness about her features.

The man, who apparently shared both Christian and surname with his John gave pause as he was about to enter a cab. Sherlock could not help but feel more than a bit unsettled by what ordinary people might be convinced was the most uncanny set of coincidences, because he didn’t believe in any such phenomenon, and wasn’t about to change his mind on the matter. This entire scenario, he knew, must be the result of misfirings in his brain - and made a mental note never to shoot up a seven-percent solution that’d been moldering away in a musty hiding place for so long. 

“Do not be angry with Mr Holmes if he turns you away,” said the woman in her cheeriest tone, as though she hoped her husband might take heart if only she herself sounded convinced of that which she spoke. “He despises the season with his whole Bohemian soul, and his preference for a reclusive existence is no reflection on the weight with which he regards your friendship.”

The other Dr John Watson smiled sadly before hailing a cab, and in a trice, disappeared down the street.

“Lovely woman, isn’t she?” said Victor as the lady in question quietly shut the door, dabbing at the edges of her pretty blue eyes with a handkerchief. 

“Was she?” said Sherlock with all the indifference he could muster.

“You’re inhuman, you know that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Why should I care about these tedious people or their petty, mundane lives?”

“Parallels, Sherlock. They’re equidistant at all points, never converging, or for that matter, diverging.”

“And what,” Sherlock sneered, “you’ve brought me to some parallel universe to show me the error of my ways? You’ll have to do better than this revoltingly quaint slice of life to convince me I'm in need of repenting. Really; I’m liable to go into a diabetic coma from this place,” he said with a moue of disgust just as a young street urchin doffed his tattered cap to a passing pair of aristocratic ladies.

“Well, if this is too convivial for your tastes, how about somewhere more sombre?”

Victor made a show of withdrawing his pocket watch, and wound the dial in a quick succession of counterclockwise turns. Instantly, the atmosphere blurred not unlike the most unsightly example of post-modernistic experiments in artistry, and before Sherlock’s vertigo had even fully subsided, the two travellers found themselves outside not-quite 221b, in the midst of a pandemonium surrounding an overturned milkman’s cart and a hansom cab. The spilt milk spreading in ever greater rivulets, Sherlock observed, was tinged a sickly pink with blood. And quite a great deal of it, for such a copious volume of liquid to have turned so dark with its stain. 

Someone shouted for a doctor even as a different sort of bell clanged in alarm down the Marylebone Road, and the scene was rife with men rushing towards the overturned conveyances in a futile attempt to free that unlucky man trapped beneath the wreckage. Horses neighed in horror, stamping their feet in attempt to flee the smell of death and blood. 

Sherlock yawned. “Boring.”

“It won’t be for much longer, I can promise you that,” said Victor, voice laced with bitterness. 

Again the hue and cry was raised for a doctor, the man screaming himself hoarse in his desperation being dragged bodily away by a pair of constables whose soothing words had no effect on this poor, troubled soul. Once he'd been dragged out of the fray, he fell to his knees in exhaustion, still shouting his pleas to the heavens.

“He needs a doctor! Someone help him! For God’s sake, _please_!”

An anguish untold was so clearly writ on the other Mr Sherlock Holmes’s features, whom Sherlock had taken for the most imperturbable of men, that the sight was enough to instantly strike the insolent smirk from his face. 

Before he could barely register the shock of what they’d just witnessed, Victor started winding that infernal pocket watch once more, and after the requisite blur of shapes and dizziness passed, it occurred to him they were standing once again in the sitting room of not-quite 221b.

The soft light of morning pooled on the carpet between a chink in the drapes, illuminating the gaunt man, this other Holmes, as he lay recumbent on the settee. If he was thin the last time Sherlock glimpsed him, he was practically skeletal now, several days growth of stubble shadowing his features. His once keen eyes, now dull and unblinking, were fixated upon a desk in the corner, or more accurately, the writing instruments laid out upon it. 

How this striking change could have occurred when only seconds elapsed even the detective is hard pressed to fathom. He had the wherewithal to understand his mind ought to have been racing, calculating probabilities, trying to unravel this pretty little knot that he needs to remind himself more frequently isn’t the slightest bit real. Instead, he only said, so quietly he wasn’t even certain he’d spoken aloud:

“Has he… overdosed?”

“No. Unfortunately, there’s life in the poor blighter.” Responding to Sherlock’s askance look, Victor elaborated. “With his dearest friend gone, he’s been sentenced to a life imprisonment, of sorts.”

Sherlock made to speak, faltered. Then compensated for the momentary weakness by composing himself with the cold mask of apathy. “I’ve always said caring was not an advantage. Anyway, this undoubtedly tugs at my heartstrings, but why is some figment of my imagination making a nuisance of himself showing me all this? Really, Victor, what does any of it have to do with me?”

“Doctor Watson was the staunchest friend a man could ever have,” said Victor by way of response, musing over the recumbent form of the other Sherlock Holmes, “and kept trying to be Holmes’s friend no matter how much he kept pushing his loved ones away. Sent him out into the cold, alone and upset, on Christmas of all days. Too distracted by his dearest friend’s bitter words to take care when crossing the icy street, too saddened by Holmes’s self-destructive behaviour to notice the approaching milk cart. And Holmes, too damned drugged with cocaine to hear the commotion, or even know of the accident until Watson‘s life had already bled away, when it was all too late.” Not unkindly, Victor turned his attention back towards Sherlock. “Just like you’re going to be.”


End file.
